Tilli's Story: My Thoughts Are Free, by Tilli Schulze and Lorna Collier, is the memoir of a young German
farm girl growing up during World War II and the Russian occupation
that followed the end of the war. The book was first published by
iUniverse Publishing in August 2004, then became an iUniverse Star book in October 2005, with a new edition published that month. It was excerpted in
the Rockford Register Star from
July 4, 2004, through Aug. 22, 2004.

What follows are the Author's Note, Prologue, first chapter and 20th
chapter of the book, which is copyrighted material and cannot be
reprinted without the authors' consent.

Author’s
Note

I am not a hero.

I did not suffer more than other German children did during World War
II and the Russian takeover of East Germany. In fact, I’m sure I
suffered less than some. There were certainly quite a few children who
underwent even more horrible ordeals than I did.

I didn’t save anybody’s life; I didn’t perform any dramatic rescues,
other than my own. Nobody in my family died.

Why, then, should you read my story?

Because what I went through is typical not only of what many German
children experienced during World War II and its aftermath, but also of
what all children endure during any war—a suffering that is
unforgivable but also, unfortunately, often overlooked and shrugged
aside as an unavoidable cost of war.

I first began this project in 1991, two years after the Berlin Wall
came down. Once that happened—once Germany ceased to be split into West
and East, free and not free—I was able to go home again.

For the first time in 40 years, I saw the small farming village where I
grew up. I saw old friends and neighbors and relatives who had not been
able to escape, as I had. I visited my brother’s grave. I stepped
inside my old house. I walked through the park which had been such a
refuge for me as a child.

And I remembered.

I remembered what was done to my family and to countless innocent
families throughout my country. We suffered under both Hitler and
Stalin. Neither of these rulers believed we should have the right to
think freely, to act freely, to travel and work and write and worship
and live as we wished.

I remembered also what was done to me. My innocence was taken. My
childhood was taken. My life was almost taken.

I never shared with my children and with even my closest friends much
of what happened to me during the war and the Russian takeover. I kept
it buried. I moved on with my life. I tried to forget.

But the memories wouldn’t die—and I’ve realized I can’t let them.

I want my family to know the truth. I want the world to know. Maybe
it’s naive to think that telling stories like mine will make a
difference, but I hope this will be the case.

We need to never forget the importance of freedom, which is sometimes
taken for granted in America. We need to realize that war makes
everyone its victim, that real people on both sides, including innocent
children, suffer the battles their leaders plan.

I didn’t want to write a political book. I am not out to defend all
Germans for their actions during World War II, nor to castigate all
Russians for the inhumane behavior some Russian soldiers displayed
towards me. I most certainly am not trying to downplay or diminish in
any way the appalling sufferings of the Jews and other Holocaust
victims.

I simply want to tell my story, my personal story: to relay to you what
I saw as a child in Germany, as a child of war, and to try to convey
the lessons, the truths, that I learned through that experience.

Although this story contains a lot of sad and terrible things, I don’t
want this to be a depressing book. I see my story as being about
survival and the triumph of the human spirit, about the way we can
overcome anything if we keep fighting, even if our battles can only be
waged within our thoughts.

That’s the way my mother fought. This book is named for her, for her
softly humming resistance to those who would try to take control of her
mind.

In writing this book, I tried to reconstruct what happened to me from
the war’s beginning in 1939 through the first five years of the Russian
occupation. As best as I could, I tried to remember conversations and
feelings that I had. Some of these conversations, of necessity, have
been recreated. I could not always remember word for word what people
said, but I could remember the gist of an encounter, the mood of a
moment, the force of a meeting. All of the major events in this book
happened, and they happened to me.

This is my story.

— Tilli Horn Schulze

Prologue: Fall 1944

It is night and they are back. Enemy planes, growling in the distance:
thunder that does not stop, but grows closer, closer, until it invades
my sleep, until I jump up in bed, my dreams crashing away into broken
bits of terror.

My mother stirs next to me. She pats my arm; she is awake, too, but we
don’t say anything. I struggle to breathe normally. She is silent.

I curl into a ball, my comforter tight to my chin in the blackness. The
thunder booms louder, louder, and there is nothing to do but wait for
whatever is going to happen next.

Now the window glass is rattling. The floor is vibrating. The roar is
so near—I can hear it, feel it, all around me; I just can’t see it. I
wish I could scream and I wish I could cry but I’ve done that before
and I know it’s no use.

I shut my eyes, put my hands to my ears, trying to silence the sounds,
trying to find a peaceful place in the darkness of my mind, and somehow
the minutes pass and then finally the grinding and rumbling and roaring
begins to fade. I let out a breath and start to relax. Maybe I will be
able to get back to sleep before dawn, before my chores, before the
two-mile walk to school.

Bombs. These are the sounds of bombs falling, exploding. I have heard
these sounds before, but always they have been quieter, from a greater
distance. Now they sound like they are right next to us, and moving
closer.

Again I try to block from my ears, my mind, this terrible noise, try
not to think where the bombs are falling—on empty fields or deserted
businesses or vacant school buildings? Or on homes, where people are
sleeping, where children—children like me—are hiding in their beds,
perhaps still shaking off the fragments of their dreams?

I am ten years old. I have been living with this war since I was five.
When the airplanes started flying over us, everyone said they would
never bomb us, that our little farm village in northeastern Germany was
too small for them to care about. We would be safe, everybody said.
Even my mother said it, holding me against her, telling me to hush and
not worry.

Now she lies still in bed, frozen just as I am frozen. We have no bomb
shelter to protect us, like the people in the cities have. We don’t
even have a basement. We have nowhere to hide.

On the wall beside me is a picture of Jesus hanging on the cross. I can
barely make it out in the darkness. Because of the war, we have to keep
black shades on the windows at night and aren’t allowed to use
electricity or candles. But my eyes are used to darkness by now and
besides, I know this picture so well. I have stared at it so often
during the past few years, ever since I began sleeping downstairs with
my mother in her bedroom.

I’ve always been unsettled by this picture—by the blood dripping down
Jesus’ wrists, but mostly by the sorrow in His eyes. I used to wonder
what it would feel like to be nailed to a cross, trapped and helpless
for the world to see.

“I am sweet and pure and my heart belongs to Jesus alone,” I whisper,
repeating the prayer I have been saying every night, for as long as I
can remember.

I hope it will help; that Jesus, somewhere, is listening.

And still the bombs fall. Over and over, on and on, death free-falling
from the sky. I start to shake, my teeth to chatter, and I know that I
can’t stay here, in this moment. I force myself to stop listening, stop
thinking, worrying, picturing what is happening outside. Instead, I
create places in my mind, beautiful safe places where I can laugh and
play until the bombs stop and I can go home again.

Sometimes I visit a house made entirely of the sweetest candy, a house
I can eat my way through. Other times, I am in the meadow, riding Max,
one of our two horses, the other hors, Moritz, running free beside me,
all muscles and mane and joy. I take the horses into the pond for a
glorious cooling splash, then lie in the long grass, surrounded by
weeds and wildflowers, trying to taste the warm breeze with my tongue,
as happy as it is possible to be.

My dreams mix with memories – of the days before war came, of the early
days of the war when my life was still more or less normal – and I
wonder if will ever be safe and happy again.

Chapter
One: September 1939

The first time I heard about the war, I was making sand castles in the
schoolyard. It was a bright fall day, sunshine left over from summer
warming the top of my head as I mounded the damp brown sand beside me
into a grand palace. A princess lived inside, a gentle, golden-haired
princess in an emerald gown. All around the castle lurked evil,
fire-breathing dragons, but my princess was safe, because the walls of
my fortress were so strong.

Hans ran up to me, panting.

“Guess what, Tilli!” he yelled. “Germany is at war!”

I stared at him. I didn’t know exactly what a war was, though I had an
idea it had something to do with soldiers and guns.

“Really?” I said, not sure whether to believe Hans, who liked to tell
stories.

Hans ran off to tell the others. I went back to pouring sand on my
castle, making it taller, wider, stronger, until it was perfect. Soon
I’d forgotten what Hans had said.

After kindergarten, I ran home through the meadow to my street, then
turned onto the road and walked the rest of the way under the cool
canopy of the linden trees, which arched across the road like a lacy
green rainbow, their leaves like hundreds of tiny hearts. I hurried
down the path past our gate, skipped through my mother’s flower garden,
which filled our front yard, and went inside to the kitchen.

At this time of day, my mother usually would be getting dinner ready.
When she’d see me, she’d give me a hug and kiss and sometimes had a
special snack ready for me. But that afternoon, she wasn’t there. The
great stove was cold and silent. The long wooden table stood empty and
bare.

I ran outside to the barnyard. “Mami! Mami!” I called.

A yellow barn cat streaked across the yard and shot up at tree. We had
so many barn cats I never bothered to name them. Bello, our big outdoor
dog, ran up to me, his tongue hanging out and his tail wagging. I
patted his thick, solid head. There was no sign of my mother or father
anywhere.

I walked back into the kitchen. “Mami?” I called again into the
stillness.

Then I heard my mother’s footsteps, coming from the living room in the
back of the house, which we never used during the daytime. Following
close behind were the clicking toenails of Fanni, Mami’s pet dog, who
was always nearby.

“Hello, Tilli, did you have a good day?” Mami said, holding out her
arms to me.

“Where were you?” I asked, hugging her, then reaching down to pet Fanni.

“Just listening to the radio.”

I noticed, then, the very faint scratchy sounds of crackling men’s
voices. My parents kept a big radio in the living room, which we only
listened to at night, when music came on.

“That idiot Hitler!” my father shouted from the living room. That was
also odd, that my father should be home this early and not at work in
the fields. I was used to him yelling about Hitler, who had been ruling
Germany ever since I could remember. My father hated Hitler, and often
said so, which seemed to terrify my mother. “Hush now!” she would hiss
at him, looking over her shoulder as though she expected Hitler himself
to come bursting through our door to punish my father for his words.

I began helping my mother set the table for supper, putting out plates
for my parents; Wilhelm, our farmhand, who lived with us; my brothers,
Heinz and Helmut, who were eleven and twelve and still in school—the
elementary school, not the kindergarten that I went to; Paula, my older
sister, who was fifteen and finished with school; and for myself,
Tilli, age five, youngest child in the Horn family.

As my mother handed me the dishes, she began singing softly. It was a
song she had been singing a lot lately. “My thoughts are free, who can
guess them? They fly by, like nightly shadows.”

Sunlight filtered through the delicate lace curtains at the window and
glinted off the silverware, casting prisms of fiery color—orange and
yellow and red—about the room, onto my mother’s face. I suddenly
remembered what Hans had told me in the sandbox.

“Mami, Hans said that Germany is in a war.”

My mother stopped singing. She set down her spatula, then lowered
herself beside me, frowning deeply. “Tilli, some people have crazy
ideas. They think they can go to another country and take the land and
make it theirs again.”

I didn’t understand.

My mother tried again. “Yes, Germany is in a war. We invaded Poland.
But it will be over very soon.”

My brother Hugo, who was thirteen, was deaf and didn’t live with us,
except for holidays and other breaks from his special school, which was
in another city several hours away by train.

“No, we don’t need to worry about the boys,” my mother said. “They’re
much too young. The war will be over long before they would have to
fight in it.”

My mother went back to the stove. I wandered into the living room,
where I was surprised to see not only my father but also Wilhelm in the
room, both of them hunched next to the radio.

I tried to sit on my father’s lap, but he pushed me away. “Not now!” he
snapped, waving me away with his hand.

“We’re busy listening to some very important news,” whispered Wilhelm,
more gently.

Besides being our field hand, Wilhelm was also my godfather. When I was
two, he had given me a doll and stroller. They were the only toys I had
ever had. The doll had porcelain skin, long brown hair the same color
as mine, gold-and-brown flecked eyes with real human eyelashes, and a
blue-and-white dirndl dress. I named her Doris. My mother said Doris
and her brown leather stroller were much too fine to play with or even
touch, so I kept her propped in the corner of my bedroom, which I
shared with Paula. Sometimes I liked to lie on my stomach on the wooden
floor and imagine what Doris might be thinking and whisper secrets to
her. Paula laughed at me for that.

“Did you hear? Did you hear?” shouted Helmut, bursting into the living
room, breathless and red-faced, his thick, dark hair wild and tousled.

Heinz, as always, followed close behind him; though he was a year older
than Helmut, he was at least a head shorter and his legs didn’t carry
him as far. Heinz was adopted and, with his curly light brown hair and
crooked grin, didn’t look like anybody else in the family, but we
didn’t care. I never thought of it and neither did Helmut, who spent
every minute he could with Heinz.

My brothers started talking rapidly to my father and Wilhelm. I only
caught snatches of what they said, most of which I didn’t understand.

“...going to take Poland...”

“...our land to begin with, after all...”

“...six weeks, tops...”

“That idiot Hitler!”

My father seemed angry, while Wilhelm and my brothers acted more
excited than anything else. I didn’t know how to feel. Nobody had been
crying, which was good. But I didn’t like the worried, tense expression
on my mother’s face. I felt like my life was somehow changing;
shifting, like dry sand, beneath my feet.

[Note: Chapter 20 occurs in May 1945, six
years later, just after the war has ended. Tilli is 11 years old.]

Chapter
Twenty

I am in the kitchen drying the dinner dishes. The Pommerenkes moved to
the villa yesterday, so we have our living room back. Maybe I can sneak
off to read in my favorite chair for awhile. Or sleep. I am so very
tired. Mami looks ready to take a nap, too; she’s sitting at the table
with her head drooping. She sometimes does this after dinner, resting
for fifteen minutes or so before going back to work.

Paula takes the plates from me and stacks them in the cupboard. Now and
then she catches spots that I didn’t dry so well. She rubs them with
the corner of her apron, but she doesn’t yell at me about it, like she
used to. She has been so quiet since she came back home. She is always
frowning and hardly an hour goes by that she doesn’t mention Erich’s
name. Erich is still missing in the war; no one has seen or heard from
him in months.

“You’d think May would bring better weather than this,” says Frau
Hoppe, drinking down the last of her barley coffee and handing Maria
her cup to wash. “Here it is, the first of the month, and it’s so cold.
Makes my bones hurt. Sometimes I can barely walk. My knees get so
puffy—”

Frau Hoppe drones on. I tune her out, tune the damp dishes out. I am
walking in a sunny field filled with violets. Max and Moritz are there.
I am braiding Max’s mane.

I go to the window, too. So do Paula and Maria and Ruth. From the
kitchen, we can see where the highway from Teterow ends and our road
begins.

“What?” says Frau Hoppe. “What do you see? Are they coming yet? Jesus,
help us. What will we do? What will they do? Can you see anything yet?”

“Look,” says Paula, pointing.

A herd of animals: pigs, bulls, horses, plodding down the road. A man
in a yellow uniform is hitting them with a stick, yelling. Behind the
animals are wagons. A row of wagons filled with men, all in yellow.

My mother swings into action. “Heinz, go tell Frau Oleniczak. Get the
girls here!” she shouts. Heinz runs out the door. Then my mother starts
throwing food together, grabbing the bread left over from dinner and
wrapping it, along with some sausages and apples, in a towel.

Paula and Maria and Ruth and I stand, frozen, at the window. As the
wagons grow closer, I can more clearly see the men in yellow. Some are
driving the wagons. Others are crowded in the back. They are whooping
and yelling and holding long rifles. Some are waving glass bottles in
the air and tilting their heads back and drinking.

The wagons stop at the Brewers’ house, which is the first on our road.
Some of the men jump off the front wagon and go to the door, their guns
out. They shout something I can’t understand, go inside, then come out,
dragging Frau Brewer, who is screaming.

Klara, Trudy, Wanda and Marie Oleniczak come running in, led by Heinz.
Klara comes over to me. “Tilli, I’m so scared,” she says, her voice
breaking.

“Me, too.”

We rush outside to the bull barn, the farthest barn from the house. Jan
meets us there. He pushes us behind the bales and boxes, into the
corner where the wagon had been hiding. It is no longer there; I don’t
know where it is.

“Cover yourselves with hay,” he orders. “Be quiet. No noise at all.”

Jan drags bales of hay in front of us, stacking them into a wall. Heinz
helps, his breath harsh and fast.

Paula and Ruth and the Oleniczak girls and I pull bunches of hay onto
our legs, then try to cover each other as best we can. Pieces of hay
scratch my neck and tickle my cheeks. I can see golden light above me,
through the bits of straw on top of my head.

“They’re going to run us through with their swords,” Trudy says, her
voice strangely calm, almost matter-of-fact. “They take their long
swords and go sticking through the straw trying to find bodies.”

“Quiet!” Jan yells, his voice faraway and muffled. “Stay quiet!”

Ruth sniffles. Paula moans. I bite my lips together so no sound comes
out. I hadn’t heard this story before, about the swords. I imagine the
men in yellow slashing away at the bales of straw until they catch skin
and flesh and blood.

There is nothing to do but close my eyes and wish I were somewhere
else. I can’t worry about what might be happening outside, to Heinz, to
Maria. To my mother.

Hours pass. Occasional loud sounds, yells and shrieks, erupt like bombs
in the silence, before falling away into an uneasy quiet, until the
next explosion.

“What’s happening?” I whisper.

Paula starts to cry. “Trudy’s right. It’s true about the swords. This
is the first place they’ll look for us.”

“Would you please be quiet?” says Marie.

We burrow deeper into the straw. I try to sleep. But sleep is
impossible. Wild images whirl in my mind and I jump at every strange
sound. There is too much to be afraid of.

There is a sudden, loud bang, nearby. A crash. Voices, deep voices,
very close, and feet, stomping in the dirt.

I try not to breathe. Male voices yell, words I don’t understand. The
barn door flings open so hard it crashes against the far wall.

I try to sink further under the hay, without moving. I will myself
invisible.

The men’s feet make crunching noises as they walk through the barn. I
hear things being pulled off shelves. The walls sound like they are
being kicked. More of those gruff voices and clinking sounds, like
glass cracking, and crunching boots and a laugh, two laughs, how could
they be laughing? and the creak of the barn door as it shuts.

And then there is blessed silence.

The next morning, my mother comes in, swiftly pulling back the bales of
hay guarding our corner. “Mami!” Paula and I cry out.

My mother’s face is black, as if she has smeared dirt on it, and her
mouth is set in a grim line. She wraps us in a quick hug, not saying
anything.

“The secret attic, where we’ve been hiding the surplus food. They
didn’t find it last night.”

“They were in our house?” Paula says.

“They came in and took things,” my mother says slowly. “They took the
radio and all the bikes. They took my watch. They had armloads of
watches.”

“Did they hurt you?” Paula asks.

“No. We’re all right. But they were looking for Hitler things, to see
if we were Nazis, and I forgot to take down the Hitler picture. I threw
it in the woodstove right away, and they didn’t do anything to me. They
seemed to be in a hurry. They went through the barns real fast but I
wouldn’t be surprised if they come back tonight, for a better search.
After it gets dark, I’m going to move you into the attic.”

“We have to wait here all day?” I ask. I don’t know how I can stand
another day in here.

“I’m afraid so,” says my mother.

“Is there room in that attic for all of us?” Paula asks. “It’s just a
crawlspace.”

“I think you’ll fit. I’m putting bags of straw up there for beds. And
I’ll have food for you. But you’ll have to be very quiet.”

“For how long?” I ask. “How long is this going to go on?”

“Tilli, don’t whine!” my mother snaps. Then she reaches for me. “I’m
sorry. I know you’re scared. I just don’t know how long this will keep
up, or what to expect.”

She gives me a hug and some of the black on her face rubs off onto
mine. She wipes my cheek and smiles.

“What is that stuff?” I ask.

“Ashes,” she says. “We’re all doing it, all of the women. We rub ashes
on our faces so the Russians will think we’re old, too old for them.
Then maybe they will leave us alone.”

My mother leaves. We spend the rest of the day trying not to move and
speaking only occasionally, in whispers. Heinz brings in more food and
tells us he hasn’t seen any Russians all day but he’s heard that
they’ve taken over the villa and kicked out the refugees that were
there, except for the ones—the women—that they wanted to keep.

Finally it is dark. My mother comes in and we stand up, stiff and sore,
then hurry with her across the barnyard to the house. As I rush through
our house to the stairs, I see the gray, empty spot on the living room
wall where the Hitler picture had been. Now there is nothing left on
that wall but a shadow.

We run up the stairs, passing Heinz and Helmut’s bedroom. Where is
Helmut sleeping tonight? Is he alive? We hurry past sacks of rye and
wheat, past my old bedroom, to a ladder propped against the wall. It
leads up to a dark opening cut into the wooden ceiling: the door to the
secret attic, raised like a hidden altar over the rest of the house.

We scurry up the ladder, squeezing ourselves into the dim, dusty space.
As she had promised, my mother has put burlap sacks filled with straw
on top of the wooden planks, so we have something to sit on. A plate
with sandwiches is in the middle of the space, a water pitcher beside
it. In a corner is a chamberpot, a black bucket which we all must share.

Sitting on my knees in the straw, the roof scrapes the top of my head.
From ceiling to floor there is about a four-foot space, except for the
point where the roof peaks, where I can almost stand up. There is
no light, no window. The air is stuffy and thick. I am in a coffin.
Panic surges through me.

“When I need you, I’ll bang with this broomstick,” my mother calls from
below. She points to an old broom, resting in the corner next to the
ladder. “If I bang twice, that means be quiet. They said we can’t lock
our doors any more. The Russians can come in any time they want. There
won’t be any knocking on the front door to let you know they’re here.
You will have to always listen for their footsteps and their voices
because I don’t know if I will always be able to warn you.”

Paula and Ruth lift the ladder into the secret attic, laying it on its
side near the opening. We call good-bye to my mother, then Paula slides
a square piece of wood with rope handles across the opening. It slips
down neatly into the hole, sealing it tightly, casting us into darkness.

We go back to our silent waiting, huddling together. I find myself
wondering what it was like when the soldiers, the Russian soldiers,
came through our house last night. Did they open our cupboards? Did
they touch our china? My books? Doris? Did they touch Doris?

Can they really just walk into my house whenever they feel like it?

I picture my mother tossing the Hitler picture into the fire, Hitler’s
stern face licked by flames, eaten away into nothingness, and that
makes me happy. I feel sorry for the pretty girl in the painting. I
wonder who she was and what she is doing now.

I want to talk to Klara, but I’m afraid even to whisper. I hug my knees
tightly to my chest. We are all breathing so loudly. My ears fill with
our sounds; how can the Russians not hear us? And what about the lines
in the upstairs ceiling, where Jan cut out the secret door. What if the
Russians notice those lines?

What about Maria? Maria isn’t hiding with us. She said the Russians
were her people and wouldn’t hurt her and since she spoke their
language, she could maybe help protect us. But what if they hurt her
anyway?

Mami isn’t hiding, either. Is she really safe? What if they hurt her,
too? Why do the Russians hate us so much?

As I strain my ears, trying to hear if they are any closer to our
house, my fears circle my head like vultures, swooping around, around,
over, lower, perching on my shoulder, whispering in my ear. Finally I
am so exhausted that I fall asleep, lying down on my burlap sack
between Klara and Paula, all of us curled together like sausages in a
row.

Suddenly I jolt awake, my heart racing. It must be a cloudy night,
because there is no moonlight or starlight coming through the cracks in
the roof above me. For a moment, I can’t think where I am, why I am so
uncomfortable. Why I can’t stand up.

Where are Mami and Maria and Frau Hoppe? I don’t hear them, only the
men.

The other girls sit up, too. Ruth starts to cry again. Wanda puts her
hand lightly over her mouth, a cautioning look on her face. Ruth nods
silently: she will be quiet. Klara squeezes my hand.

I hear Maria’s voice, from somewhere below us. She is yelling
something. More thuds, as if people are falling down. Chairs scraping
on wood, doors slamming. Why can’t I hear my mother? It is only men’s
voices, yelling, hooting, laughing.

On and on, for hours, the voices rise and fall. What do they want? Why
are they staying so long?

Then, suddenly, it is silent again.

Even though they must be gone, we don’t talk to each other or move. We
are like statues, kneeling statues, frozen in our fear. Klara’s fist is
in her mouth. Her cheeks look wet and she is blinking furiously. I wish
there were something I could do or say to help her. But there is
nothing.

We sit like this for seconds, minutes, hours. Paula silently passes the
sandwiches and water. I drink some of the water, but have no appetite
for food.

Trudy crawls over to the chamberpot. I try not to look or hear. The
rest of us use the pot, taking turns. It is awkward and messy and
smelly and so embarrassing, but we have no choice.

The darkness begins to lighten. Pinpricks of rosy dawn find their way
through the holes in the roof-tiles. I hear the rooster crowing, Fox
neighing, Bello barking. The light turns golden bright. It must be
sunny outside. I wonder when I will see the sun again.

Somehow I sleep. Dreamless, deep sleep. When I open my eyes it is warm
and stuffy and feels like afternoon.

Everyone else is awake. Klara and Trudy are holding hands; Ruth is
stroking Paula’s hair; Marie’s fingers run across the top of her rosary
beads, making the slightest of clicking sounds.

Thump, thump. “It’s me!” my mother calls softly, tapping on our floor
with the broom she left propped against the wall downstairs.

Paula, who is closest to the opening, pulls on the handles and lifts
the piece of wood from the opening. Then she and Marie pass down the
ladder. My mother climbs up, carrying a bundle of food.

Her face is still dark with ashes. I crawl to her and wrap myself in
her arms. She kisses the top of my head and for a moment nobody says
anything.

“How are you all doing?” my mother asks, turning to look at each of us
as best as she can in the shadows.

“Fine,” I lie, echoing the others.

“I wish I had more food for you,” my mother says. “If I can get back up
here tonight, I’ll bring more. Or Heinz will. But this may have to last
you until tomorrow.”

There’s an edge to my mother’s voice.

“What is it?” Paula asks. “What’s wrong?”

“Jan left today. The Russians said he had to go with them. He is free
now.”

I don’t know whether to be happy or sad about this—I never really liked
Jan, but I don’t like the idea of no man around the farm during the day
to help my mother. To protect her.

“And that’s not all,” says my mother. She pauses, her face grim.

“Mami, what? What is it?” asks Paula.

“The burgermeister came by this morning. There’s going to be a dance at
the villa tonight for the Russians. Our new friends, he called them.
Can you believe that? Friends! We’re supposed to be welcoming them to
Doelitz. All the women in Doelitz are invited.”

“What?” says Paula. “You’re not going, are you?”

“If we don’t go, the Russians—our new friends—say they will burn
Doelitz to the ground.”

“Oh my God,” says Wanda.

My mother laughs bitterly. I have never heard her laugh like this
before. “Who could refuse such a polite invitation from such charming
gentlemen?”

“I’ll be all right,” my mother says. She waves at her face. “We’re all
going like this, with as much ashes and dirt on us as we can, and we’re
wearing our oldest and smelliest clothes. They won’t want us.”

“Is my mother going, too?” asks Trudy, her voice small.

“Yes, dear. We all have to go. We can’t risk not showing up. I did want
to warn you, though, that I won’t be here tonight. In case anything
happens.”

After Mami leaves, it is a long time before I can slow my thoughts, my
endless circling vulture thoughts. I fall asleep, but my sleep is
broken with nightmares, filled with sirens and unseen men chasing me
and flames on all sides.

“Shhh,” Wanda says, shaking my arm. “Shhh.”

I shake the dreams from my mind and listen and then I hear them, soft
footsteps, the floor creaking below us.

There’s a tap on the door to our secret space and I let out my breath:
it’s the sound of the broomstick; it must be my mother. Paula slides
open the door and lets down the ladder. Instead of my mother, another
girl climbs up. It’s Dorothea, Lori Pech’s young aunt, covered in a
black shawl and scarf. Her face, like my mother’s, is smudged black.

My mother stands below, on the first few rungs of the ladder, calling
up to us in a low voice. “Dorothea has come to stay with you. I’ll see
you in the morning. Be careful!”

We help Dorothea find a spot in our cramped space. She blinks, trying
to adjust to the darkness, and holds her arms tightly around herself.
“What’s happening out there?” whispers Paula. “Have they had the dance
yet?”

“It’s starting now,” Dorothea whispers back. “Everyone is on their way
to the villa. The Russians are all there. I took my chance to run. I’ve
been hiding in our root cellar but that isn’t safe, so your mother said
I could come up here with you.”

Dorothea slumps against the wall, looking exhausted.

Paula offers her half a sandwich. She waves it away. “I haven’t slept
since they came,” Dorothea whispers. “I’m afraid to close my eyes. I’m
afraid of what I’ll see.”

Dorothea starts to cry. Paula puts her arms around her and they sit
together silently.

We resume our vigil, waiting, listening. I don’t hear anything for
hours. No soldiers yelling. No screams. Once I hear a soft thud below,
but quickly realize that it is only a cat, pouncing on a mouse.

Finally we hear the front door open and footsteps walking slowly
through the house. I smile. It’s my mother; I recognize her sounds,
so unlike the men, who burst in, the door slamming, their voices
thick and loud. Her footsteps, soft and steady, continue to her
bedroom, and then there is silence.

I drift to sleep, relieved. Maybe the dance helped, somehow, and
the Russians are at peace and will leave us alone and I can go back
home again.

I am by myself in the park, next to my dreaming rock, gathering
wildflowers. The sun is strong and hot overhead and I am going to take
a nap on my rock and then I’m going to bring these flowers to my mother
and life is so sweet and I am so happy.

The sun splinters and crashes out of the sky and now I am awake and it
is dark, not sunny, and the crashing is real, glass is smashing, and
there are voices, men’s voices. They’re back and they’re yelling. They
sound so angry, running through the house, flinging open doors,
breaking glass, shouting and laughing.

Ruth starts to cry, her shoulders shaking. Dorothea puts her hand over
Ruth’s mouth to silence her sobs.

Maria is yelling in that other language now, the men’s language. The
men’s voices are high with fury, yelling back. More thuds and thumps,
the sounds of struggling.

And then Maria’s voice, her scream, carrying over all the other sounds,
soaring right up to us and landing helpless in our laps. I press my
hands into my ears as hard as I can, but still I can hear her, still I
can feel her pain and terror.

“Oh no,” Paula whispers, her eyes wide, horrified.

“Those bastards,” says Dorothea.

“Shhh,” says Wanda. “Shhh!”

I lie back down on my bed of straw. I am so useless. All we can do is
nothing. That is our only function. To say nothing, to be completely
still; if possible, not to be at all. At least for awhile. We have to
be lifeless, we have to be wraiths, spirits in hiding, if we are to
have any hope of saving ourselves.